Impossibly Mortal
by Prone To Obsession
Summary: Jack Introspection during Miracle Day.  I hope to do at least one per episode.  Current chapter:  Episode 3
1. Twisted Miracle

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Torchwood or Captain Jack Harkness. If I did...well, I won't get into that. :)**

**Author's Note: I've written stories about Jack for Doctor Who, but this is my first Torchwood fic. I just couldn't help but try a bit of introspection. This is set during Episode 1 of Torchwood: Miracle Day. I apologize in advance for the inordinate use of ellipses and tenses changes. I don't have an excuse for the ellipses, but for the tense changes, I blame Charles Yu and "How To Live Safely In A Science Fictional Universe".**

Jack stares at his bruises in the broken half-mirror which leans precariously against one of the crumbling walls in his makeshift home base. He can't help but run his fingers along them, noting the peculiar pain that trails along with his touch. Slowly, he lowers his shirt and turns away, his mind racing trying to make sense of it all.

He moves to the window, pulling aside the tattered remnants of a curtain to stare outside. There's a streetlight not far from the window, but it must have a fault in its wires because it sputters for a moment and then dies again, leaving the street in complete shadow. He continues to stare at the emptiness, and suddenly finds himself wondering how old he is. It's been a while since he last considered this—age is just a quaint way of measuring one's own mortality, and until recently, Jack hadn't seen the point in keeping track.

The last time Jack celebrated his birthday was back when he was traveling with Rose and the Doctor. His personal chronometer had beeped, letting him know another year had passed, and Rose had insisted they celebrate with drinks and a cake. She had even given him a present—a scrapbook of her, Jack, and the Doctor, and all the places they had been. It was garishly done in bright orange and neon green, and it had Rose's curvaceous script covering the margins with commentary like "Boys & Their Toys", and "They don't teach _that_ in the Time Agency!" It was messy and rushed, since his birthday had caught them all off guard, but it was full of love and warmth and joy...

That had been his 35th birthday, and not long after had come the Game Station, and Bad Wolf. His personal chronometer had fried along with his vortex manipulator. Still, his life over the next century had been simple enough, temporally speaking anyway, and he knows that by 2008 he had been 174. Then he had found the Doctor, and things started to get complicated.

Sitting on the stoop, Jack wonders if he should count the Year That Never Was. Technically, it had never happened, but his memory still, masochistically, refuses to forget it. And what about Gray? How much of the nearly 2 millennia underground should he count? He had been dead for most of the time, reviving every few hours to suffer through another 3 agonizing minutes of burning suffocation...

Jack lets out a slow breath as he shakes his head clear. He knows it's impossible to say how old he is, and in truth, he knows it doesn't really matter. The real question that he is making his way around to is, how much of that time had he spent wishing he could die? How many times did he kill himself just to see if it would stick? How long had he spent waiting for the Doctor, so that the Doctor could take away his immortality? In the end, the Doctor hadn't been able to fix things. No, for that to happen, Jack had needed a miracle.

The streetlight chooses that moment to let out another sporadic burst of power, and the light reaches into the dark room, glinting off the Webley in Jack's hand. _ When did I take that out of the holster?_ he wonders, though he doesn't bother putting it back. His thumb brushes down the barrel, almost caressing it as he turns a single thought over in his mind.

Miracle Day.

It makes a kind of twisted sense to Jack that he would only lose his immortality by the world's gaining it. Things can never be simple, can they?

Can they?

He thinks about this, still staring at his gun. He wonders what death feels like, when it's real. When it's forever. He considers how easy it would be for him to find out, finally. This is his chance, maybe his last chance...

His laptop beeps; one of his searches has landed a hit. Maybe he finally has a trace on Gwen. Or maybe there's news about the bombing. He pauses, then holsters his Webley.

First he'll save the world. Then he'll deal with his own problems.


	2. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Author's Note: Had to continue this, at least for one more episode. Although I could say a thing or two about "I am SO Mortal" Jack from episode 3...**

He should have known to be more careful. Maybe he had gone soft in his nearly two years away from Torchwood; he had forgotten how quickly things could get dangerous. And now here he is, on an airplane somewhere over the Atlantic, struggling to remain conscious, while his best friend desperately tries to get Jack help. He's not even sure he wants help.

Because if he's being honest with himself, two years hasn't changed him _that_ much. And he knew, even as Rex was calling him a hypochondriac, Jack_ knew_ that something was seriously wrong. And he stayed silent.

He continues to stay silent for as long as possible, until Rex finds the pills and it becomes obvious that he has, in fact, been poisoned. Arsenic. At least his skin will look good for the funeral.

Jack knows chelation is his only hope, and he knows that with their resources, it's nearly impossible. He also knows that nearly impossible is a far cry from impossible, especially when Gwen's involved. When she asks him how to fix it, he knows he can't be silent anymore. So, he does the next best thing; he lies. _I don't know._

And then the convulsions start, and he wonders if he has just done something incredibly stupid. There have got to be better ways to die.

Things get a little fuzzy for a while, and Jack finds that he's too weak even to keep his eyes open. But he can still hear everything that's going on, from Gwen's frantic orders to her yelps of joy as she makes progress on the chelating agent. But it's all pushed to the back of his mind by the overwhelming pain and rising lethargy. Jack can almost _hear_ his organs shutting down. By the time he hears _cyanide_, he knows he doesn't have much time left, and he's surprised when he realizes...he hopes Gwen hurries up.

_Careful what you wish for_, Jack thinks as he hears the footsteps rushing up to him, because he thinks they must be too late. This is what death feels like, when it's real. When it's forever. And he's...scared.

And then Gwen is telling him everything will be okay, and Jack wants to believe her, even though her face betrays insecurity and worry.

The needle goes in, but his exhausted body doesn't even register the pain. His head slumps and he wishes he had the energy to tell Gwen goodbye, and that he's sorry, and...

And then the chelation starts to work, and his blood is on fire, and his heart starts beating faster, and the energy he couldn't seem to find five seconds ago is now bursting through his skin as he screams and clutches his chest and _oh it feels so good to be alive_.


	3. Mortal Needs

**Author's Note: Okay, there was _so_ much Jack stuff in episode 3, it was hard filtering it down into some form of coherent introspection. Hopefully I've achieved it here, though. I didn't even manage to touch on the stuff at the end with Oswald. Maybe in another chapter. Anyway, I just want to say thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, alerted, or read this so far. Especially big thanks to the reviewers. :)**

_As far as I can see, you got all your staff killed._

Rex's words sting in Jack's ears, lungs, behind his eyes. Several methods of retaliation bubble up into his mind, not the least vindictive of which involves a swift punch to Rex's healing chest. But he doesn't act on any of his impulses. He stays calm and answers quietly and lets Rex drive away. Because really, none of the things Jack _could_ have done would change the fact that Rex is right. As he, Gwen, and Esther walk silently in the direction of home, Jack feels old emotions surfacing. Self-pity and loathing, guilt and regret. Despite (or maybe, because of) the fact that Jack nearly died and they had to go into hiding, the past few days have been good. Normal. Faintly nostalgic. Jack sees Toshiko in Esther's analytical mind and undeserved lack of self-confidence. He sees Owen in Rex's brashness and attitude. And for just a few days, he had let himself believe that things could be like before. He had his team, his base—he had Torchwood.

But Rex is right, he thinks. Torchwood is dead, and Jack is the man who killed it. He finds himself remembering old, long gone conversations.

_It wasn't your fault...  
>I think it was.<em>

_I begrudge you everything...I will never absolve you. All of it, it's your fault._

_You send your friends into danger, knowing the stakes aren't the same for you, that you might get them killed while you walk away unscathed._

But...Jack reached up to touch his still wounded arm, noting the faint itch at the scratch. Things have changed now. New life, new rules...he won't always walk away unscathed anymore. And what's more, he doesn't have a team to risk. Torchwood is dead and gone. Not even the Miracle is enough to fix that.

But there is something the Miracle can do for him, Jack realizes as they round a corner. He's vaguely aware of Gwen's shouts as he abandons her and Esther for the club, but he barely stops long enough to give an excuse. _I am so mortal._

Jack's old body healed itself remarkable well, and it was very good at filtering out toxins. Which was handy for certain occasions, but was rather inconvenient when it came to alcohol. Before the Miracle, Jack had practically needed an I.V. to maintain anything more than a slight buzz. But, Jack repeated internally as he strolled through the club, things have changed. New life, new body. And for the first time in centuries, Jack is going to get well and truly pissed.

And, honestly, that's all Jack has in mind as he approaches the bar and orders a scotch. Just one night to himself, drinking until he can't remember what _Torchwood_ means anymore. But then, the cute bartender with the baby face compliments his coat. And as hard as he tries, Jack can't help remembering another voice—Welsh vowels, calling out in the dark—_By the way, love the coat._

And when the bartender invites Jack home after his shift, Jack has had just enough to drink that he says yes, and he lets himself imagine that he's going home with those Welsh vowels and the man they belong to.

But now, after some mediocre sex and a lot more to drink, and he can't pretend anymore. He can't even remember the bartender's name. Brad, or Kyle, maybe. Something with not enough vowels in it. And it hurts so much. Jack doesn't remember alcohol making him this depressed when he was younger. But then again, he had a lot less to be depressed over back then.

Maybe more scotch will help. He pours himself another drink, downs it, then pours another. Maybe calling Gwen will help. _I was thinking, if this happened a bit sooner, he'd still be here, Ianto._ Calling Gwen doesn't help.

_I wish he was here now. Not much of a team, is it?_ He can't stop thinking, after he realizes Gwen has hung up, how much better it is with a team. A proper team. Friends. A family. That's what Torchwood was. He wishes it were true, what he said. He wishes that he didn't need anyone.

As he falls asleep, Jack hopes that Rex is safe, wherever he is.

**End Note: Quotes not from this episode are from (in order) CoE Day Five, Exit Wounds, Dead Man Walking, and Fragments. In case anyone was wondering.**


End file.
